“And what if I don’t?”
I feel him shrug. “Then you can decide not to go back. It’s your choice.”
Glancing across the street, I see a normal-looking girl going into the building and a normal-looking boy coming out. I don’t know what I expected. People in straitjackets?
Yes, this is my choice. I need to take charge of my emotional health. After talking to Mom the other day, I know I can’t rely on them to help me.
“I’ll go with you to meet the doctor, if you want,” Jon says. “They said it was okay. And then if you’re comfortable with the situation, I’ll leave, so you can talk.”
I push away from him. “You…you called them?” Panic constricts my airways, making my voice high-pitched and squeaky. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t give them your name…or mine. I only told them that a friend had an appointment and was nervous about coming.”
Somewhat relieved, I exhale and stare over at that orange awning again. Can I really go in there and spill my guts to a stranger? I did it with Dr. Kramer, but that was because my parents forced me to. This is voluntary.
Jon’s words echo in my head. If I don’t like it, I don’t go back. It’s my choice. I’m the one in control. If, after talking with Dr. Mehta, I don’t connect with her or feel comfortable, then I don’t need to keep seeing her. It’s my decision.
The tension in my shoulders eases a little. I straighten up, and Jon gives me a warm smile of encouragement.
“Okay, I’ll go there on one condition. Two, actually.”
“What are they?”
“First, you’re going to need to leave.”
He frowns. “Leave?”
“Everyone knows you. I don’t want people wondering why you’re in the SCC and figure out it’s because you have a fucked-up girlfriend.”
“You’re not fucked up, Ivy,” he says, sliding his hands from my shoulders down to my upper arms and giving me a little shake. “But okay, if you want to do this on your own, I’ll leave. You can call or text me when you’re done. If you want to. What’s the second condition?”
“I want you to tell me who the Olivers are.”
He looks confused. “The Oli—” Realization flickers in his eyes and his expression hardens. “Who?”
“That old couple, the Olivers. They sent you another friend request. I saw it pop up again on your laptop.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You really want to know who they are?”
“Yes.”
Blowing out a long breath, his eyes get a faraway look. “They’re my father’s parents.”
“Your grandparents?”
“Yeah, I guess you could call them that.”
“So why don’t you want to talk to them?”
“For one thing, I’ve never even met them. Why should I friend them online?”
“Why not?”
Anger gathers behind his eyes as he works his jaw back and forth. “They’ve known about me from the time I was born, and yet they chose to ignore me the whole time. Now that they’re old, are they suddenly feeling guilty that they raised a son who went around fucking lots of women and getting them pregnant? Do they think friending me online is going to make things right with God before they die? Well, I’m sorry. It doesn’t work that way.”
He’s obviously thought about this a lot. “Maybe they didn’t know about you until now,” I say quietly.
He laughs bitterly. “No, they did. They thought my mother was a slut and a gold-digger. Isn’t that what all groupies are? What they didn’t know was that my mom was with my father—their son—for almost a year. She traveled all over the country with him. But he dumped her when she got pregnant because she couldn’t go out on tour with him anymore. So you tell me who was the biggest user in that situation.”
“Jesus, Jon.” From what he told me before, I knew his father was a dick, but this is pathetic. Part of me is curious about who he is, but that’s not important. If I ask, Jon might think it matters to me when it doesn’t. He’ll tell me if he wants me to know.
“She and her friends shouldn’t have gone backstage to meet the band,” he continues. “I mean, everyone knows what happens when a band’s manager starts pulling hot girls out of the crowd, right? But she was fucking seventeen! What seventeen-year-old girl doesn’t have stars in her eyes when given a chance to meet a rock star backstage? And what twenty-five-year-old guy thinks it’s okay to prey on teenage girls? It fucking makes me sick.”
“God, she was younger than we are,” I say almost to myself.
“The Olivers didn’t know shit about my mom. They didn’t know she dreamed of going to college and becoming a nurse, but because their son got her pregnant, kicked her out, and didn’t pay child support, she had to give up on those dreams to raise me. Alone. With no help from my father or his family.”
“He didn’t help her financially at all?” I ask, appalled. His father clearly had the means to support her.
“He did a little at first, but the checks stopped coming after a few months and my mom didn’t pursue it.”
My mind is reeling as I try to make sense of it all. “Your dad’s a jerk. You said so yourself. But what if he only told your mom that he said something to his parents, but he actually never did? What if he was feeding your mom a load of BS to keep her—and you—from disrupting his life? What if they’re just finding out now that they have a grandson? Have you considered that possibility?”
He shrugs, his face a mask of indifference. “I don’t need them, Ivy. I’m managing perfectly fine on my own.”
He’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as hardworking and dedicated as Jon. “But have you thought about the fact that maybe they need you?”
He studies his hands and doesn’t answer.
I grab them and give them a little squeeze. “I don’t know who your dad is and I don’t care to know. But I’ll tell you this. Although I’m sorry you and your mom had a difficult time with things, I’m glad that selfish fuck didn’t raise you. If he’d have been in your life growing up, you might have turned out to be a different person today. And I think you’re awesome just the way you are.”
Even though his expression is hard and his brows are furrowed, moisture wells up in the corner of his eye. As he turns his head and brushes it away, I’m struck with sudden clarity.
I’m in love with him.
Jon Priestly. This gorgeous, sensitive, deeply damaged guy standing in front of me right now. I love him. More than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire life.
But as my heart feels as if it might explode, a painful lump forms in my throat. I want to tell him how I feel, but I’m afraid. If he learns everything about me—that I may have killed someone—how will he react? Will he leave? I’m not sure I’d want to be around me if I were him.
I walk into the waiting room at the Student Counseling Center and feel like I’m going to throw up.
Come on, Ivy. You can do this.
A dark-haired woman is sitting on the edge of the receptionist’s desk holding what looks to be a ball. No, it’s not a ball. It’s a skein of yarn that an older woman behind the desk is crocheting. They look up as I approach.
The younger woman pushes up her horn-rimmed glasses and gives me a sheepish smile. “Oops. You caught me. I came out to check my schedule, but Janice and I ended up talking about crocheting and yarn.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Dr. Mehta, a hopeless yarn addict. You must be Ivy.”
I shake her hand and smile, the tension in my shoulders lessening. My gaze lands on Janice’s crochet project. I can’t tell if it’s a scarf or a shawl, but whatever it is, it’s really pretty. She’s doing a really cool lace stitch I haven’t seen before.